


How To Disappear Completely:

by bastardbones



Category: Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Body Horror, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Killing Game (Dangan Ronpa), M/M, Muteness, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Content, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, Unresolved Emotional Tension, mlm angst is all i know, not that graphic though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26905783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastardbones/pseuds/bastardbones
Summary: Makoto is a nice boy, but he is not the right one.
Relationships: Ishimaru Kiyotaka/Naegi Makoto, Ishimaru Kiyotaka/Oowada Mondo
Comments: 18
Kudos: 131





	How To Disappear Completely:

**Author's Note:**

> My brain is just a nonstop ricochet of Ishimondo. How many different ways can I write the same two characters? Ridiculous.

There are arms holding him, rocking him gently, but they are the wrong arms, the wrong hands, the wrong boy. The boy he wants had his bones melted like goo, then churned, and churned, and churned until his body took a new form. The entirety of Mondo Oowada fits into a small container now. Like an urn, but worse. Now when Kiyotaka moves, his muscles feel sticky, like there is syrup between each tendon, and it hurts, it is painful. When he speaks, his teeth feel sensitive, like he has swallowed mouthfuls of powdered sugar. He can’t shake the thought: a rotting mouth, eroded enamel, a raw mound of flesh. He thinks about it and does not want to talk. Soon, he will not be talking at all. 

Makoto is a nice boy, but he is not the right one. Kiyotaka answers with a sob as Makoto holds him tighter, securing him in an embrace. The pressure is nice. Kiyotaka is curled into himself, curled up tight like a scab before it peels off, and he looks just as unsightly. His hair is unkempt, his eyes are swollen, and wiping his nose of snot has become an abandoned chore. Despite this, Makoto holds him, far longer than anticipated, far after the night time announcement. Eventually, Makoto coaxes him onto the bed and begins unlacing his boots.

“Will you be safe if I leave?”

Probably not. The pillow he could use to suffocate himself. The bedsheets he could tie into a noose. He could fill the bathtub. It would be no easy death, he could swallow water for hours before becoming exhausted enough to drown. Without looking at his classmate, Kiyotaka shakes his head.

“Okay,” Makoto sighs, slipping off his shoes and shrugging off his blazer. He hesitates, then asks, “Do you need help getting undressed?”

The bed creaks when Makoto joins him. He settles on the opposite side of the mattress, only for Kiyotaka to cling to him anyway. His body is warm and Kiyotaka burrows his face into the side of his neck, exhaling with a broken cry. Makoto blushes, gulping noisily and Kiyotaka can feel something poking against his stomach. He doubts it means much, Makoto is well meaning and his body is just responding. Kiyotaka politely disregards it. 

Part of him doesn’t want to, though. Part of him wants to roll around and do a few stupid things under the blanket. He imagines taking Makoto into his mouth, sinking down and swallowing him, nevermind his raw, tender throat. He would choke. He would _want_ to choke, but Makoto wouldn’t allow it. Makoto isn’t senseless and he isn’t selfish and he wouldn’t allow Kiyotaka to destroy himself in the ways he wants to be destroyed.

Kiyotaka sniffles and Makoto rakes a hand through his hair, loosening a few tangles. It is enough to ease him, the drag of fingernails, lulling him to sleep. When he wakes up in the morning, the boy is still there, mouth slightly ajar, drooling onto his pillow. The alarm on his wrist watch activates and Kiyotaka cannot summon the energy to snooze it. Makoto groans in displeasure. He barely opens his eyes before rolling out of the bed, tugging the sheets off his body. Kiyotaka reaches for him.

“Don’t go,” he says. He has to say it twice. His voice is beneath a whisper, strained from yesterday’s hysterics. Wordlessly, Makoto returns to bed. As soon as his back hits the mattress, Kiyotaka is pawing at him like a needy animal.

Makoto is… small. He is almost a foot shorter than Mondo was. Even in the darkest room, it would be impossible to confuse them. There are no similarities. Kiyotaka breathes in his scent and it is nothing like Mondo, that lingering smell of gasoline on his jacket, the gravel and the dirt and the musk. He breathes in again and suddenly he smells a lightning storm, electricity coursing through flesh, cooking it from the inside. He smells Mondo; melting. Mondo; dying. 

++++++++++

This is the memory. It goes like this:

He wakes up disoriented. There is a knock at his door, so soft he might have imagined it, until he hears the voice. He unlocks it without a second thought, gasping as Mondo pushes inside, his hair wet, his coat missing. For a moment, Kiyotaka thinks that is the end, that Mondo has intended to kill him, that this was the plan all along. To befriend him, to gain his trust then slaughter him in the dead of night. Kiyotaka is not a fighter. Mondo grabs him and he simply resigns. 

The kiss is unexpected. It tastes like salt. Kiyotaka reaches to wipe his tears only to discover they are not his at all. A strangled cry leaves Mondo and before Kiyotaka can question it, they are kissing again. It is warm and slow and no boy has never touched him like this. He is being pressed into the wall, crushed by a larger, stronger body and it feels good. His body is enjoying it, but his brain is begging for explanation. 

"Mondo," he tries between a breath. 

Mondo kisses more forcefully. Kiyotaka whines. 

"Just let me do this." There is a tremble in his voice. This is him asking for permission.

Kiyotaka will let him do anything. He would set himself on fire if Mondo asked. _Don't you know?_ The thought is so loud in his head, but he struggles to voice it. _Don't you know I adore you?_

++++++++++

Makoto peels an apple. The skin coils and collapses onto the cutting board. He halves it, guts the seeds, then chops it into thin slices.

"Here," Makoto smiles, dropping the fruit into a bowl. Kiyotaka stares.

He may as well be offering food to a cadaver. 

The kitchen is overflowing with ingredients. It looks like a photograph in a cookbook, a colorful amalgamation of fresh vegetables and fruit; ripe pears and grapes and pomegranates. He imagines sinking his teeth into the flesh, the sharp burst of flavor, and his stomach clenches. He can smell Mondo again. That metal cage cooking him alive. That burning, bubbling pop of seared meat. A body liquified in mere minutes. Into thick, soupy remains. 

He has no appetite. 

Makoto sits with him in the cafeteria. His face droops more with each passing minute and the fruit goes untouched, until Makoto takes a slice between his fingers. Kiyotaka does nothing when it touches his lips. He does nothing when Makoto says _please_. Begging is useless in a place like this. Kiyotaka begged on both knees and it did not matter. His hands are still bruised from punching the floor, his nails are still cracked from being scraped off it. The apple oxidizes.

"Oh, is he your new boyfriend?" Syo cackles from across the table. Kiyotaka barely glances, even as she addresses him. "You move fast, Ishimaru!"

++++++++++

This is the memory. It keeps going:

Mondo had killed Chihiro only hours before. He had acted in blind rage and scrubbed his body clean of the sin. That's why his hair is still wet. That's why his hands are chapped and smell like soap. From the scrubbing. 

His hands are everywhere. Groping, squeezing. He places them around Kiyotaka's throat for the briefest moment. He is strong and for a second, Kiyotaka feels real terror. Something about the uncertainty of it. Something about Mondo being taller and larger and more threatening than Kiyotaka could ever be. Mondo can't be bad, though. It's too easy to call him bad, to dismiss him as a degenerate or a danger to society. Kiyotaka makes himself believe that. Maybe he believes that because he wants to believe he has good moral judgement in people. That at heart, Mondo Oowada is as good as they come. The truth of it is not so simple. Kiyotaka lives in a world of black and white, dividing good and evil into their respective categories. Mondo is grey. He cannot exist in Kiyotaka's world without shattering it. He cannot hold Kiyotaka with the same arms he killed Chihiro, but he does.

“Take this off,” Mondo says and Kiyotaka cannot move fast enough. 

He is eager to please, shivering as the air hits his bare chest. Mondo smooths his thumbs along his ribs, down, down along the lean muscle and pale skin. Fingers dip below his waistband and Kiyotaka groans, half aroused, half embarrassed, as Mondo rakes through his pubic hair. His face burns as Mondo takes him into his hand, into his fist, and begins to stroke. Kiyotaka chews his own tongue, suddenly hellbent on remaining silent. He isn’t sure how to react in a situation quite like this. Mondo just came knocking in the middle of the night and it must be a dream, some hormonal fantasy he’s been suppressing, because this can’t be real. Of course Mondo likes him — he thinks, he _hopes_ — but not like this. It makes no sense. Mondo moves with a sort of desperation that Kiyotaka does not yet understand. His time is limited. The clock is ticking. By this time tomorrow, everything will have changed. By this time tomorrow, he is a dead man.

“Are we boyfriends?” Kiyotaka murmurs into Mondo’s shoulder, where he is hiding his face. Mondo tenses up. He pauses.

“Yeah,” he exhales. Such a goddamn liar. His breath is shaky. “I’ll be yer man, baby.”

 _Baby._ Just a word like that sends a pleasurable ripple down his spine. Mondo picks up the pace and Kiyotaka cries into his shoulder. There is a warmth in his gut and a swelling in his heart. He never wants it to end. It is somewhat uncomfortable, the way Mondo has pinned him to the wall, but maybe it was intentional. From this angle, Mondo has his back to the security camera, shielding them from the lens, if only partially. Kiyotaka notices the red blink and forgets to care. When he glances back, he can see it despite the dark, that Mondo has pulled himself out. Kiyotaka gulps as his erection grazes his own. Nervously, he takes it into both hands, doing his best to imitate what Mondo had done. He pulls back the skin. He touches the sticky ooze of precum. 

He has no experience with this kind of activity. Mondo makes no comment, electing to busy his mouth with a few nips and kisses. His breath hitches in some indication of pleasure. Kiyotaka repeats the motion until Mondo shifts, swatting his hand away, ending the handjob. He spits into his palm, takes both himself and Kiyotaka into his fist, then strokes them in unison. Kiyotaka is stunned, his lips part. He says a mantra within the privacy of his own head. It is somewhat innocent despite the circumstances. _I like you. I really, really like you._ Something like that. Something stupid and simple. Kiyotaka moans, pressure building just beneath his stomach. 

“Can I tell you my secret?”

Mondo slows, but he does not stop. 

“What?”

The secrets that Monokuma threatened to expose. At first, Kiyotaka was completely mortified by the thought, but he is beginning to make peace with it. The truth will set you free. That’s how it goes, right?

“Everyone is going to know in the morning, but I want you to know first.”

“Later,” Mondo promises. Later never happens. He kisses Kiyotaka deeply, slips his tongue inside and gives it everything.

Mondo fucks him. Really fucks him. Fucks his body and fucks his head, a swirling vortex of ceaseless thoughts and urges. Fucks him stupid. Fucks him hard enough to have a death wish in his absence and Kiyotaka just has to wonder why. Maybe Mondo fucked him to give himself an edge during the trial. He needed a ride or die and Kiyotaka had leapt for the title. No one else has ever been so adamant in defending a guilty man. Maybe Mondo fucked him because he knew death was imminent. He was human, he had a libido, and maybe Kiyotaka was an easy lay. Maybe he just wanted to get his dick wet and Kiyotaka was a warm hole. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

++++++++++

Makoto comes to his door with an armful of snacks and an extra pillow. Kiyotaka feels his stomach betray him, gurgling miserably at the sight of food. He steps aside to allow his classmate in, eyes fixed to the floor, appearing as empty as ever. The packaged goods go to the desk, the pillow onto the bed, and Makoto plops down on the mattress. 

"I can't make you," Makoto says as he gestures to the pile of snacks, "but it's there if you want it."

Kiyotaka reminds himself that Makoto doesn't actually _like_ him. He is only here out of moral obligation. This isn't friendship, this is babysitting. Kiyotaka isn't so feeble minded, he knows what pity looks like. It almost makes him want to scream. Why can't Makoto just ignore him like everyone else? If he would just go away, if he would stop doting on him, maybe Kiyotaka could muster the strength. Maybe he could just tie up the bedsheets and get it over with. He's been practicing his knot. 

"Taka." He flinches at the sound of his name. Makoto looks worried, his hand is outstretched and soon Kiyotaka is joining him on the bed. "You can talk to me, you know? Please say something."

He wants to ask Makoto to kill him. He realizes how selfish that is, but maybe they could devise a way that is mutually beneficial. They could frame another student so Makoto could graduate and finally escape the school. The rest of them? Fuck the rest of them. They could burn for all he cares. They sent Mondo to his death in good conscience, they did not mourn him, they did not shed a tear. His mouth twitches in lieu of a response.

Makoto waits patiently. He waits for the longest time. Eventually, he fishes for a piece of paper from inside the desk.

"Here.” He offers a pencil. 

When Kiyotaka refuses to take it, Makoto places it on the bed, beside the blank paper. Kiyotaka could scribble his thoughts, but he would be all out of lead before finishing. He stares at the page. He forgets to blink. Makoto nods off, head drifting to the side before snapping back to attention. Exhaustion overcomes him and he slumps, with a gentle knock against the headboard. He must have had a busy day, between exploring the school and checking on Kiyotaka every hour or so. No one else has put forth the effort. No one should even have to. He’ll be dead soon. He wants to tell Makoto that, but he doesn’t want to disappoint him. 

He plucks the pencil off of the bed, rolling it between his fingers, the smooth wooden texture. Delicately, on the edge of the paper, he writes his untold secret, then folds it in two. He hides it in the space between the mattress and bed frame. When he disappears, he will not disappear completely. 

He nuzzles beside Makoto, counts his breaths, drapes his arms around his sleeping form. When Sayaka died, no one seemed to comfort Makoto. Certainly not Kiyotaka. Reflecting on it so late makes him feel egocentric. If Makoto had grieved, then he had done so privately. He hadn’t collapsed on the ground, he hadn’t made a show of it. Makoto’s hand twitches and Kiyotaka takes it, locking their fingers in a loose embrace. 

His hair is ash brown and Kiyotaka gets lost in it, smoothing his fingers through the strands. Makoto leans in, allowing the touch. Makoto is a nice boy, but he is not the right one. He is beautiful, though. He is gentle and trustworthy and Kiyotaka has to snap out of it. No more boys. No more of this. There is a lump in his throat that cannot be swallowed down. 

“I’m here,” Makoto says, still holding his hand. He says it so simply. With a warmth in his voice that is so fine and reserved. 

Funny. It makes Kiyotaka want to live, if only for a moment. 


End file.
